


Abnormal

by intangible_girl



Series: The Android and the Firefly [1]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Coming of Age, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Gen, Marron and Uncle Seventeen bonding time, feelings about being a non fighter in a fighting anime, marron gets to be a character yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-03-28 18:53:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13910106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intangible_girl/pseuds/intangible_girl
Summary: Or, When Everybody's Kung Fu Fighting and You're NotMarron was ten years old before she realized she wasn't normal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this years ago and it got jossed by Super pretty badly, so consider it an AU I guess? Back in the day it fit nicely into the canon between the Buu saga and the very end of Z.

Marron was ten years old before she realized she wasn’t normal.

“Are you girls ready for Pan’s birthday party tomorrow?” her father asked during a commercial. Roshi shushed him (it was an ad for women’s underwear, and her mother smacked him lightly on the head with the remote and changed the channel), but Marron answered her father, ignoring the old man.

“I still can’t decide what to wear,” she admitted, and her mother turned her attention to her.

“I thought you were wearing the red dress and white shoes,” she reminded her. Eighteen shifted the remote to her other hand, away from Roshi’s attempts to grab it back.

“I dunno, I was thinking maybe the green dress and the black shoes…” Marron said dubiously. She wanted to look her best, and she just wasn’t sure red was her color anymore. It had been a long time since she’d seen some of the people who were sure to be in attendance; some of them wouldn’t have seen her since she was three years old. The green sweater dress was scratchy and uncomfortable, but it made her look very grown up.

“Man, it’s great to have more girls in the group,” Krillin sighed happily. “Do you think Pan and Bra are going to be like Trunks and Goten?”

Eighteen scoffed.

“Let’s hope not,” she muttered, and Marron giggled. She didn’t see the two boys often, but she’d heard plenty of stories, and the few times her father had agreed to babysit meant she knew none of them were exaggerations. There was a crack in the wall of the kitchen they still hadn’t gotten around to covering up that was physical evidence of the fact that Trunks and Goten (sometimes literally) got along like a house on fire.

The TV program came back on, and Marron shifted her position until her head was in her mother’s lap. Eighteen began absently running her fingers through her daughter’s hair, making Marron even more drowsy than she was already. She felt her mind wander.

Goten and Trunks. They had always fascinated her, strange creatures that they were. On the rare occasions when they came over her parents had worked hard to make sure the boys didn’t get carried away while playing with her, but the truth was she was happier just watching them. They were actually pretty nice to her when they could muster the patience to play with a younger girl, but their true love was fighting, and watching them go at it was far more entertaining than roping them into playing dolls with her. She remembered many happy moments sitting on the porch, chin in hands, as the two boys sparred and wrestled on the sand or in the air in front of her, and she had never once been tempted to join them.

Oolong wolf-whistled at the TV, and Marron realized that she, too, was excited at the prospect of more girls. Pan was only turning two, and Bra was still just a baby, but it did not matter how much younger than her they were; she would surely have more in common with Bra and Pan than with boys. She would be a mentor to them, she mused sleepily. She would initiate them into the world of femininity: dolls and dress-up; clothes and makeup; and someday ( _she smiled as she shifted her position on the couch slightly, mostly asleep_ ) she would teach them about the mystery of boys, just as soon as she understood it herself…

When Pan, dressed in an orange gi identical to her grandfather’s, blew out her birthday candles and disintegrated the entire cake, Marron felt her stomach drop.

She hid her sudden discomfort as Gohan tousled his daughter’s hair with a gentle smile on his face, and Chi-Chi, exasperated but doting, told everyone in a loud voice that Pan was Gohan’s daughter alright. Marron made sure to smile when Goku announced proudly that he was already training her, and laughed dutifully when Krillin made some quip she couldn’t hear. She snuck a glance at Bra, who was seated on Vegeta’s lap, watching the proceedings with an expression that matched her father’s impatient detachment. The unconscious similarity almost made her laugh for real, especially since Bra was less than a year old, but Vegeta noticed her gaze and treated her to one of his more mild glares, and she looked away. She drifted to the back of the crowd, slipping the small wrapped box containing hair clips she’d bought with her allowance into the pocket of her sweater dress, and didn’t eat any cake. She did not notice her mother’s eyes on her, nor the slight frown on her mother’s face.

She was silent during the ride home.

 

* * *

 

The next morning was routine. Marron engaged in the portion of the daily training her father and Roshi allowed her―that she wanted―to participate in, which consisted of Tai Chi, meditation, and some deep stretches. It allowed her to spend time with her father and the man who was as good as her grandfather, and it gave her some exercise and a change of pace from her usual, more mundane, routine. But the truth was, she had never thought about it much; it was just something she did every day. Today, however, was different.

Academically she knew that there were martial applications to the motions she made: the steady pushes of her arms could be translated into strikes, the careful lifting of her legs into kicks. But as she sat on the porch afterward and watched the two men go through the rest of their workout, something she rarely did, she realized she could not really imagine using those movements, or any others, to actually punch or kick someone. She watched as her father and grandpa Roshi went through the slow, measured version of sparring that allowed them to maintain the fiction that Roshi’s pupil had not far outstripped him years ago, and knew that not only could she not picture herself partaking even in such a watered down version of combat, she had absolutely no inclination to cultivate such a desire.

When she got up and went inside, her mother was waiting for her.

“Good morning,” Eighteen said, and her eyes narrowed fractionally when all Marron did in response was hum a despondent greeting and make for the stairs.

“Aren’t you eating breakfast?” she asked.

“’m’not hungry,” Marron mumbled, dragging herself up the stairs so slowly she might have been going backwards. Eighteen watched her go, eyes still narrow, and did not turn back to her food until her husband and Roshi came in, sweaty and famished.

“There’s something wrong with your daughter,” Eighteen said, and Krillin froze. When Marron was ‘his’ daughter it meant the problem was something his wife did not feel equipped to handle. This usually included the more emotional aspects of parenthood. Eighteen had never shied away from diapers or feeding or getting up at night to soothe their crying infant. She could put bandaids on scrapes and even kiss them better. But she got this helpless look in her eyes whenever her daughter was sad or moody, and he had always been expected to step in and take over at that point.

“Can it wait until after breakfast?” Krillin said hopefully, and was relieved when his wife shrugged. Not too urgent, then. He and his master sat down to eat.

“What’s going on with my little firefly?” Roshi asked, the hand that had been reaching for the rice getting lost along the way and making for Eighteen’s cleavage instead.

“I’m not sure,” the woman said, nudging Roshi’s hand away. The old man swore under his breath and cradled the injured limb to his chest. “It started last night at Pan’s birthday party.”

“Did something happen?” Krillin asked, taking some fish. He reached up to the cabinet beside the breakfast table and pulled out something for bruises, handing it wordlessly to Roshi.

“No,” his wife said dully. “Not that I could see. She’s just unhappy about something.”

“Must be boy trouble,” Roshi pronounced, rubbing the salve on his arm. Eighteen’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“It had better not be,” she ground out. Krillin chuckled and shook his head.

“I seriously doubt that’s it,” he told his wife and his sensei. “She’s way too young for that.”

Eighteen grumbled something unintelligible and dug in to her eggs. Roshi, too, began eating in earnest, but Krillin nibbled on his fish thoughtfully.

 

* * *

 

 A week later Krillin got off the phone, a huge grin splitting his face.

“Eighteen, Marron, guess what!” he exclaimed. Eighteen, Marron, Roshi and Oolong, who had been rearranging the pieces of the Parcheesi board to put Krillin in last place as he spoke on the phone, looked up, all wearing neutral expressions. Krillin’s smiled faltered momentarily as he looked cannily at the board, but his news was too exciting to keep the smile from his face for long.

“That was Bulma: she and Chi-Chi are going on a girl’s only cruise and you two lovely ladies are invited!”

Roshi and Oolong immediately began making plans to crash the party, and Eighteen actually looked intrigued. Marron, who was being watched sidelong by both her parents, bowed her head over the board, fingering her game piece as her face fell into a frown. Eighteen met Krillin’s eyes and they shared a look. He hadn’t gotten around to speaking with her after the birthday party, but this time he would― later.

“She said you guys should come over later to discuss the details. She also has a message for you two,” he added to his master and the Pig. He waited until he had their full attention before continuing. “She says if you even think about peeking on this cruise she’ll let Vegeta deal with you any way he wants.”

Krillin was pleased at the backpedaling this statement caused among the two perverts, and he was equally pleased at the smug smirk on his wife’s face that meant he’d just done something that impressed her. But he was the most pleased at the genuine amusement breaking through Marron’s frown.

Whatever was going on, it couldn’t be too bad if he could still make his little girl smile.


	2. Chapter 2

Eighteen watched her daughter from the corner of her eye as they flew to Capsule Corp. Marron had been quiet all morning, and Eighteen was starting to feel a familiar drowning sensation. She had never been cut out to be a mother, not even as a human, and trying to read the cause of her daughter’s somber mood in the angle of her frown or her slumped posture was like trying to decipher a foreign language she’d never heard of.

“What’s wrong?” she asked bluntly, aware, already, that this was not going to work, but unable to think of another method and equally unable to leave her daughter’s obvious distress alone. Marron frowned her mother’s frown (another uncomfortable sensation: watching someone else wear your face; it had been easier when she was three and looked like Krillin’s clone) and said in a voice tinged as much with despondency as with anger,

“Nothing.”

Eighteen tightened her mouth but didn’t say anything. Prying would only make things worse. She’d just hand the girl over to Krillin when they got home, and pretend along with her daughter that everything was fine until then.

She hadn’t counted the destructive influence of the Briefs family.

-

When Vegeta answered the door, Eighteen was ready for him, posture turned away from the door but face angled slightly towards it, ready for the staring match they always seemed to fall into whenever they met. It wasn’t so much that they still hated each other, though they would never be easy in each other’s company. The tentative testing of each other’s battle-readiness by locking eyes was, by now, more habit than anything else. But it was comforting to know that neither of them had let their new lives turn them totally soft.

She was almost disappointed when he barely glanced at them, walking away with a grunt. Eighteen decided to take the still open door as an invitation and led her daughter inside. She soon saw the reason for his distraction: Bra, who was wiggling desperately in his arms and giving hiccuping sobs that she recognized as signs of a baby who had cried itself out and was now fighting sleep. The man had dark shadows under his eyes, which were unfocused as he paced, rocking his daughter and looking desperate.

“She’s teething,” Eighteen said. It wasn’t really a question. His eyes slid over to her briefly, then dropped back to staring at nothing. He grunted again.

“Try whiskey,” she advised. “Worked wonders on this one.” She jabbed a thumb behind her at Marron, who gave an outraged squawk. Vegeta scowled.

“I’m not getting my infant child _drunk_ ,” he protested disdainfully. Eighteen rolled her eyes.

“She’s not supposed to _drink_ it,” she answered in tones of equal disdain. “You rub it on her gums to make them feel better.”

“That’s still barbaric,” he muttered, but she could see he was mulling the idea over. Eighteen wondered briefly if she _could_ have gotten him to get his daughter drunk, but Bulma came into the room before she could pursue the thought any further.

“Hey, Eighteen,” she greeted easily, giving her husband a peck on the cheek as she passed. “Hey, there, Marron. I think you’re taller every time I see you; you obviously don’t take after your dad that way.”

Marron fidgeted at the attention, fighting between annoyance at being cooed at like a baby and a desire to be polite, like a grown up. She settled for shrugging. Bulma smiled and turned back to Eighteen.

“Chi-Chi’s already here. Do you guys want anything to drink? Any snacks…?”

As Bulma led them upstairs, chattering like a hostess, Eighteen passed by Vegeta.

“Vodka works too,” she murmured softly. The noise he gave in response was more a growl than a grunt, and she allowed herself a small smile.

Chi-Chi cooed over Marron worse than Bulma had, and Marron’s reaction was worse to match, openly scowling over her plate of cookies. Both other women blinked at the moodiness of a girl they’d assumed, with evidence, had inherited her father’s sunny disposition, then lifted their eyes to Eighteen, silently seeking an explanation. Eighteen shrugged. To her relief, they dropped it, and began discussing plans for the cruise.

Partway through the discussion Vegeta entered the room, Bra finally asleep in his arms. He handed her wordlessly to Bulma and left by another door, looking half-asleep himself. Bulma rolled her eyes affectionately as she took the sleeping child. She looked up from rearranging blankets to see Marron studying the baby with suspicious curiosity.

“Wanna hold her?” she offered. The look on Marron’s face said yes, but she only shrugged and ducked her head. Chi-Chi and Bulma traded looks. This was not the bright, cheerful firefly they knew. Bulma tried again. “Come on, hold her. If she cries you can always hand her back. She may be Vegeta’s daughter but she’s got my looks; how can you resist this face?”

Marron got up and left the room, muttering something about needing to use the bathroom. Eighteen stared intently at the doorway she had vacated, body tense but not moving to follow. Bulma and Chi-Chi looked at each other again, and then turned to Eighteen.

“What’s wrong with her?” Chi-Chi asked bluntly, though with compassion. Eighteen frowned and shifted her gaze to the woman briefly, before shifting it back to the doorway.

“I don’t know,” she admitted in a low voice. “She’s been like this for a while. I don’t know what’s wrong.” She picked up her glass as Chi-Chi and Bulma arranged their faces into expressions of concern and added, her usual placid veneer settling back over her face, “Krillin’s going to talk to her.”

Bulma and Chi-Chi looked at each other once more, and Eighteen pointedly took a drink of her iced tea.

-

Marron wandered blindly around the twisting corridors of Capsule Corp, trying to find a bathroom so she could lose her composure in privacy. Loneliness was rising up inside her like a tide, and she wondered if it would stop before she drowned.

She came upon a likely door and opened it, realizing her mistake a moment too late:

_Beat_ ―Vegeta’s sleeping form lay on the bed in the center of a room that was obviously not a bathroom.

_Beat_ ―She froze, knowing that in exactly one second her body would start to move again and she could escape before he woke up.

_Beat_ ―Vegeta’s hand was around her throat, eyes wide and bloodshot, the force of his aura pinning her against the wall.

_Beat_ ―Marron stared into his eyes, and all she could think, even though in the back of her mind she knew she was probably going to die, was that the daughter of this man was going to be no protégé of hers.

And then her mother was there, eyes more like ice than she had ever seen them, forcing Vegeta’s hand away from her throat.

“I’ll do more than break your arm this time,” she bit out angrily, and Vegeta shook his head as though to clear it, aura dropping away. He blinked, and Marron, with a clarity of perception she was dimly aware came from having almost died, could see that he had been asleep and was only just now waking up.

“What’s your brat doing in my bedroom?” he demanded, snatching his arm out of Eighteen’s grip. Marron slumped to the floor as Bulma rushed into the room. She was aware of a cacophony of voices above her head, but she found she could only concentrate on the fact that despite Vegeta’s hand being gone she was still having difficulty breathing. She reached out blindly for her mother’s pant leg, finding it on the third try, and yanked on it. After a few more beats Eighteen crouched down and looked into her daughter’s eyes.

“We’re going home,” she announced, picking her up like a baby and striding out of the room. The ride home was a blur, and Marron next came to herself lying on the couch in her own living room, Roshi leaning over her with a concerned expression on his face, his hands hovering over her stomach.

“Her ki’s flowing normally again,” he announced, “But it’ll take a while for this to pass, even so.”

Marron burst into tears.

-

Krillin looked up as his wife hovered uncertainly just outside the door. He smiled softly.

“She’s asleep,” he called. “It’s safe to come in.”

Eighteen sidled into the room, trying not to show her discomfort. She relaxed marginally when she saw Marron’s head settled peacefully on her father’s lap, eyes closed. After studying her daughter for a moment, she paced to the window and looked out, arms folded tightly across her chest.

“That was Bulma on the phone,” she said in a voice so low Krillin could barely hear her. “I think she was trying to apologize, but I told her to go to hell.”

Krillin chuckled.

“I’m going to kill him,” his wife said, and her voice was like the last fourteen years hadn’t happened. Krillin felt the smile slide off his face.

“Can we settle on mild maiming until we’re sure what happened?” he cracked.

“He _attacked_ her,” Eighteen growled, her hair flying about in a halo of yellow as she turned her head swiftly toward him, eyes wide and such a light blue they looked almost white. “ _That’s_ what happened.”

“I know he’s not everyone’s favorite person, Eighteen, but Vegeta doesn’t just go around attacking people for no reason. Anymore.”

“Are you saying this is _Marron’s_ fault?” she hissed, raising her chin and staring down at him almost wildly.

“I’m saying this could just be a misunderstanding,” Krillin said conciliatorily.

“He had his _hand_ on her _throat_ ,” she growled, arms unfolding, hands clenching into fists. “Misunderstanding or not, he dies.”

Marron whimpered in her sleep, and both her parents turned to her, Krillin holding as still as he could, Eighteen dropping her fists down to her sides and unclenching them. Their daughter, face still tear-stained, adjusted her position and sighed. Krillin lifted a lock of her hair, running it through his fingers.

“We’ll talk about this in the morning,” he said, voice soft but authoritative. “You should get some sleep.”

Eighteen stared down at her daughter, her beautiful, precious, mysterious daughter, for a few more seconds, before striding noiselessly out of the room. Krillin took another lock of hair in his hand.

“I’m all for giving people the benefit of the doubt,” he murmured to her. “But unless Vegeta has one hell of an excuse, Eighteen won’t have a chance to kill him, super powers or no.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

The tableau on the beach was outlined with tension: Krillin with his hands protectively on his daughter’s shoulders, flanked by his wife on one side and Roshi on the other (Oolong was taking cover in the house). Facing them was Bulma, behind whom was Vegeta, looking out to sea. Eighteen’s teeth were bared, and Krillin could tell she was one wrong move away from snapping. He hoped Vegeta did nothing to provoke her, and then, thinking that thought all the way through, resolved merely to make sure Marron was well away from danger when the ki started flying.

“Vegeta has something to say,” Bulma announced, and when he didn’t move, she actually _took him by the ear_ and dragged him forcibly to the fore. Krillin had always known Bulma was a force of nature rather than mere flesh and blood, but that took the cake, hands down. Vegeta lifted his chin, ignoring Eighteen.

“Brat,” he called out, and Bulma elbowed him in the ribs. “Marron,” he amended. He waited until the girl made eye contact before continuing. “What I did yesterday was uncalled for and unacceptable.” He lowered his chin. “I apologize.”

Krillin felt his mouth drop open, and Marron pulled herself out of his suddenly loosened grip to step forward.

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice steady. “I startled you. I know you didn’t mean it.”

Krillin could _hear_ his wife’s teeth grinding, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Vegeta raise an eyebrow.

“Be that as it may,” he said, “I should not have allowed my guard to drop so low that I could be startled by a little girl. It will not happen again.”

“Apology accepted,” Marron said, sounding achingly grown up to Krillin’s ears. Eighteen moved just slow enough that Krillin could catch her before she made it to Vegeta.

“That’s not good enough!” she screeched as Krillin strained to keep her at bay and Vegeta, arms folded over his chest, sneered. “I want his _blood_!”

“Mom!”

Eighteen froze at her daughter’s voice, and Krillin used the opportunity to yank her further back.

“He apologized, mom!” Marron scolded. “You don’t have to _attack_ him!”

“I’m not going to _attack_ him,” Eighteen growled. “I’m going to _kill_ him.”

His daughter sputtered for a few moments, and then Krillin heard her say three words he had never heard her say to anyone:

“ _I hate you!_ ”

Marron held her arms rigidly at her sides as she gave a wordless scream of frustration, and stomped back inside the house, slamming the door behind her.

Krillin gingerly let go of his wife, who had deflated completely. She stared at the sand for a moment, the atmosphere breathless. Then she took off into the air and jetted away without a word.

“I trust you can see yourselves out,” Krillin said to the Briefs’, before taking to the air after her. Roshi watched impassively as Vegeta gave a small snort of amusement before making his way back to the hover car he and his wife had arrived in.

Bulma sighed deeply, shaking her head, and the ogling Roshi gave her as she turned and followed her husband to the car was half-hearted.

* * *

Roshi turned halfway around in his seat when he heard Marron come downstairs. Her parents had still not returned, and every so often Roshi could feel a faint burst of ki from his student, far away. They were probably sparring, Eighteen safely taking out her frustrations on her husband, and Marron had been holed up in her room crying, by the looks of it. She edged towards the kitchen, trying to hide her face from Roshi, but he could see the tear tracks and hear the sniffles. It hurt to see his little firefly so limp and soggy. Children in general were of little interest to him, and he'd never felt even the slightest inclination to have any of his own. But the tears that Marron was fighting and the scowl she was fighting them with made him feel old, old and grandfatherly, so he turned back to the TV and said over his shoulder,

“Come watch a movie with me, Marron.”

He heard her sniff.

“I don’t like aerobics videos,” she protested thickly.

“Aw, I’m tired of those things. I wanna watch something else. Maybe… Journey to the West? Part 2, perhaps?”

He could almost _hear_ her stop and consider this. Journey to the West was her favorite story, and Part 2 was her favorite part of the movie trilogy. Her father had read the books out loud to her as a child, and when they’d been adapted into movies, she had insisted on them all getting dressed up and standing in line on opening night. If this didn’t tempt her, Roshi didn’t know what would.

“Can I make some popcorn?”

Bingo. Roshi allowed himself a smile before he turned around.

“Tell you what. I’ll make you some of my famous kettle corn while you work this damned contraption and set up the movie. Deal?”

She smiled, well aware of his dislike of their new disc player.

“Deal.”

But partway through the movie, after the kettle corn had all been eaten and the love interest lay dying, she gave a heavy sigh.

“Hmm?” Roshi prompted.

“Do you…” She fidgeted with an un-popped kernel of corn. “Do you think she’s mad at me?”

“Who? Oh, your mother? No. She could never be mad at you, Marron.” Mad at everyone else, sure. Often. But never her daughter, no matter what she did.

“I don’t really hate her,” Marron admitted, somewhat desperately. “It’s just… I know I’m not like most people, and…”

Roshi paused the movie.

“What?”

Marron studied the bottom of the popcorn bowl closely.

“What do you mean by that?” Roshi asked, completely bewildered. Marron shrugged unhappily.

“I don’t like fighting. I… I know that’s not… I mean―”

She ran her finger along the rim of the bowl, trailing off with a sigh. Roshi continued to stare at her. Tried to think of anyone in her circle of friends and acquaintances that did not practice martial arts. Oolong, of course, but… well, he was Oolong. Puar? Had she ever spoken to Puar? Besides, Puar didn’t really count as a non-combatant anyway. Bulma; but Bulma was decades older than her and fit into roughly the same category as Puar: she didn’t practice martial arts, but she was always in the thick of things anyway. Bra was a baby, and considering who her father was, that little girl would likely grow up knowing the inside of that gravity contraption well. Marron’s reaction to Pan’s birthday party suddenly made sense.

Roshi hmm’d softly, but could think of nothing to say. Marron gestured to the frozen screen, and he started the movie back up, praying that Krillin would be back soon.

* * *

He was, but in no shape to talk to anyone.

Marron sat outside the hospital room, toying with the Styrofoam cup in her hands that still held the orange juice Roshi had given her. He had run off after one of the nurses a while ago. Marron didn’t expect to see him again anytime soon. Her mother refused to leave her father’s side, and Marron found that as much as she didn’t want to be around her mother right now, she wanted to be around her heavily bandaged, unconscious father even less.

She’d seen Bulma already, but what she hadn’t known was that Vegeta had come with her.

“Hit me, girl,” he said, appearing before her so suddenly that she dropped her orange juice, spilling it all over the floor. She looked up, eyes wide, to find him crouching over her, tapping his jaw. “It’s only fair.”

“Stop being creepy,” she demanded, standing up and moving away from the wall, folding her arms protectively over her chest. He looked briefly bewildered, but she hadn’t grown up in Kame house for nothing. “You sound like a pedophile,” she clarified, and the look of pure horror on his face was enough to ease her discomfort somewhat.

“That is not my intention at all,” he said with stiff dignity. “I simply wish to even the scales.”

“By letting me break my hand on your face? No thank you.” Marron was a little horrified, at that moment, to hear her mother’s dry tones coming out of her mouth, but they seemed to be serving her well.

Vegeta gritted his teeth.

“I will lower my defenses so that does not happen,” he ground out, sounding pained. She frowned.

“I’d probably break my hand anyway,” she said bitterly. “It’s not like I’ve ever punched someone.”

He looked genuinely surprised.

“You haven’t? I know the tin can is formidable, but I was under the impression that your father had given up fighting. Surely you must have struck him at some point―”

“I don’t practice martial arts,” she snapped, heat rising to her cheeks, as though she were admitting something shameful. Considering who she was admitting it to, it probably was. “At all.”

She couldn’t read the complicated expression that passed over his face then, but eventually he turned away, arms folded over his chest. Marron wondered if going back into her father’s hospital room could possibly be more awkward than this.

“My offer still stands,” he said eventually. “Surely you at least know how to make a proper fist.”

Marron made one, teeth grinding.

“Go away,” she ordered bluntly.

“Make me,” he challenged, turning to face her, and she was looking at her mother this morning, carrying her father's unconscious body into the house; she had her back to the wall, Vegeta’s hand at her throat; she was looking on as Trunks and Goten wrestled their way through a wall; she was watching Grandpa Roshi complain about his bad back while knowing that, bad back, arthritis and all, he was still capable of being very, very dangerous.

Marron swung.

And she did break her hand.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore the way Seventeen was handled in Super, but I wrote this long before it was even a glimmer in Toriyama's eye, so my characterization is based almost entirely on that one tiny snippet we see of him at the end of the Buu saga. How was I to know he was hunting poachers, not bears?

“It’s a good thing we were already in a hospital,” Oolong joked, but it fell flat. Marron didn’t even bother to glare at him. She could hear Bulma  _ still _ yelling at Vegeta somewhere, and she hoped that once they left she would never see him again. She was sure her mortification would never subside.

“There you go,” the doctor said, all smiles, while lowering her arm. “Now just don’t get it wet, and you can come back in about six weeks and we’ll take another look at it, okay?”

She stared sullenly at a wall, laying the cast with her hand inside on the table beside her like it belonged to someone else. Oolong nodded to the doctor for her.

“Six weeks,” he said. “Don’t get it wet. Got it.”

Marron hopped down from the examining table and strode out of the room and through the corridors, not caring if Oolong was keeping up. She was just slowing down, having realized that she didn’t know where she was going in such a hurry, when she ran into her uncle.

“Hey there, lightning bug,” Seventeen said, smiling easily, and all at once Marron knew where she was running to. He noticed her cast and his smile gave way to a frown. “I thought your dad was the one all banged up. What happened to you?”

She set her shoulders, and ignored the sound of an out-of-breath Oolong finally catching up to her.

“Uncle Seventeen, can I stay with you for a while?” she asked.

-

Eating bear was what finally gave her the courage to ask.

He'd killed it with a .50 caliber rifle and nothing else except sheer nerve. She had watched him do it from a safe perch high up in a tree, watched him stare down a giant grizzly bear knowing that if he missed he was only going to try to reload and pray he did it fast enough to get another shot off before the bear caught up to him. Marron knew he wouldn’t actually let himself be harmed by any of the animals he hunted, but she also knew that he had not come out here to wrestle with bears. 

He’d taught her how to roast meat her first night, and she took care of most of the cooking after that, but he helped her with the bear because it was too big for her, not to mention too big to fit over the indoor fireplace. Their solution had been to roast it outdoors over a bonfire. It smelled amazing, and the look in her uncle’s eyes as he watched the flames was at once scary and emboldening. Were she a few years older and not related to him, what Marron felt for him might well be called a crush, but as things stood it was merely utter fascination.

“Uncle Seventeen, why do you hunt with only guns?”

He turned to her, brow quirked in that way of his, and studied her for a long moment before turning back to the giant drumstick and turning it needlessly. 

“That’s kind of a complicated question, bug. How about you tell me why you’re asking?”

“Well, you’re so strong. As strong as mom. You could just punch things or blast them with your ki or something, easy.”

“Now, that wouldn’t be very fair, would it?” he asked with a smirk. She looked down at the extra meat she was salting with her good hand.

“But guns aren’t fair either, are they? Animals just fight each other with teeth and claws. They don’t have weapons.”

“Hm.” He considered that seriously for a minute, gazing up at the stars, and then smiled and turned the drumstick again. “You have an excellent point, bug. Though a gun is still more fair than a punch in the face from me.”

She giggled a little at that, setting aside a fully salted chunk and picking up a fresh one. 

“Then why?”

He sighed thoughtfully.

“Like I said, bug. Complicated question. I guess… I guess it makes me feel more human, you know?”

He gave her a sad smile, and turned the drumstick another quarter turn. She studied him, slowly spreading salt over a slice of meat. She wanted desperately to ask about his life before Dr. Gero, but she had been forbidden by her mother from ever asking either of them about it. She’d received a softer admonition from her father not to touch on the subject because it would make mommy and uncle sad to talk about.

“You seem human enough to me,” she said, and could not decipher the resulting expression on his face.

“That’s very sweet of you, Marron,” he said softly, turning the drumstick over and over. “But I’m not human. Not anymore. And neither is your mother. Never forget that.”

She did forget it. Often. 

“I told her I hated her,” she mumbled into her chest. “But I don’t. I just don’t understand her. Or anyone.”

A surprised laugh tore itself out of Seventeen’s mouth.

“Anyone?” he repeated, amused. “Anyone at all?”

She scowled.

“No. I just… I just don’t get it.”

Now he seemed curious.

“Get what?”

“You know,” she said, shrugging. “Fighting. Training. Getting stronger. I don’t care about that stuff.”

“Nobody said you had to, bug,” he said carefully.

“I know  _ that _ ,” she sighed, picking up a fresh piece of meat. “But everyone else does.”

“Not  _ everyone _ ,” he scoffed.

“Yes, everyone,” she retorted. She counted on her fingers. “Mom and dad; you; Grandpa Roshi; Uncle Yamcha; Uncle Goku, all his kids and even Chi-Chi kind of; Vegeta and Trunks; Videl and her dad, Pan; and probably Bra once she’s old enough. Everyone.”

Her uncle tried not to laugh.

“You’ve hardly listed off everyone on the planet, bug,” he pointed out. She huffed.

“Everyone  _ important _ .”

He threw back his head and laughed.

“Oh, bug,” he said, pulling the drumstick off the fire and tousling her hair. “You need to get out more.”

She hmphed and accepted her share of the meat gracelessly.

“I mean it, though,” he uncle continued once he’d eaten his share. “It’s probably not healthy to stay cooped up on that island all the time. You should―hey!”

His eyes lit up and he turned to her, grinning. She was interested to see that the expression lacked any of his usual mocking sarcasm. He was genuinely excited.

“We should go on a road trip! Maybe we can even look for the dragon balls; you know, the old fashioned way! It’ll be fun!”

She stared at him, and he pouted when she did not join in his enthusiasm.

“Just like your mom. Look, I’m invoking my powers as an uncle on this one. You and me. Road trip. What do you say?”

She turned her gaze to the fire. It did sound kind of fun. She’d grown up on stories about epic quests to find the dragon balls, and she couldn’t deny that it had sounded unbelievably exciting when she was younger.  But her dad and his friends could find them all in a matter of hours these days, and it had turned into something like a particularly fun chore. She imagined driving across the continent, wind in her hair, adventure lurking around every corner, that elusive blip on a radar screen promising treasure untold if only you gathered all seven. She looked back up at her uncle, and the hopeful look on his face.

“I guess it could be fun,” she allowed, and the look unfolded into a grin. 

“It’ll be more than fun, bug,” he promised. “It’ll be the best time of your life.”

She felt her mouth tug itself into an answering smile, and suddenly being abnormal didn’t seem so bad.


	5. Epilogue

“How’s your arm?” Vegeta asked gruffly.

Marron shrugged.

“Better.” There was an awkward pause before she continued: “I got my cast off last week.”

He grunted in affirmation, and then added, “That’s good.”

“How’s your―” Marron gestured to his face, where a brilliant black eye still bloomed, courtesy of her mother. He looked away and scowled, cheeks red, and she dropped her hand to her lap.

“It’s fine,” he rumbled when she wasn’t looking at him, and she murmured wordlessly in response.

More silence, in which was clearly audible the slight shift of fabric as Marron adjusted her position in her chair and the scuff of Vegeta’s boots on the floor. Eventually Bulma came back in the room, and both occupants snapped their gaze to her, grateful for something else to pay attention to.

“Here it is, Marron!” the blue-haired woman announced triumphantly, holding up a round device. “The dragon radar.”

Marron stood up, unable to keep the grin from her face, and accepted the radar, running her fingers over its smooth surface reverentially. She had never actually gotten to hold it, and she couldn’t help pressing the button on top experimentally.

Nothing happened.

“Oh, damn,” Bulma swore from her vantage point over her shoulder. “I could have sworn that one was working. Here―”

She snatched it out of Marron’s hands, whipping out a small screwdriver-like device from somewhere on her person and prying off the back. Marron’s posture slumped, and she sat down again.

“Say, Bulma, are you sure you’re willing to part with _all_ of this?” Her uncle’s voice preceded him through the doorway. He was juggling a large handful of capsules, and was followed by Trunks, who was holding another handful. Bulma glanced up.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Trunks, get the man a case, would you?”

“Sure, mom,” the boy said, dumping his load onto a work table.

“Because there’s a lot of stuff here,” Seventeen continued, carefully spilling his burden next to the pile Trunks had made and rooting around in it. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or anything; I’m sure it will all come in handy, even the… toaster…”

“Here,” Trunks said, handing him a small box. Her turned to his mother. “Now can I go to Goten’s?”

“No, Trunks,” Bulma said absently, still fiddling with the dragon radar.

“…and the jet skis…” Seventeen continued.

“Seventeen, if there’s one thing I’ve learned searching for the dragon balls, it’s that you have to be prepared. I can’t tell you how many capsules I’ve gone through out there. They get blown up, shot at, fall down ravines…”

“But mom, I’m supposed to help him with his math homework.”

“We’re not going to get shot at, are we?” Marron squeaked, and then cleared her throat. “I mean, not too much?”

Seventeen laughed.

“Don’t worry, bug, I’ll have my whole gun collection with us. Even if we do get shot at, we’ll be on even ground with whoever’s stupid enough to mess with us.”

“If Goten is that desperate for help with his math homework, he has Gohan. _You_ are still on probation, young man, and right now that means helping Marron and Seventeen get ready. Now, hand me that box over there, would you, the one with the solder in it.”

Trunks complied, grumbling. As he passed Marron he gave a half-hearted tousle at her hair, which she answered with a squeal, hands flying to her head.

“Trunks! You messed up my hair!”

“Trunks, don’t be childish,” his father reprimanded, and the boy cringed.

“Sorry, Marron,” he said, somewhat sincerely. She hmphed and set about fixing the damage.

There was silence then, filled only with the buzz of a soldering iron and the click of capsules being fitted into a case. After a few minutes Bulma snapped the casing back on the radar and turned it on.

“A- _ha_!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “Good as new!”

Marron, hair back in place, took the device and pressed the button experimentally. She had to click it a few times before it zoomed out enough to see anything, but there, on the edge of the screen, to the west, was the two star ball. She felt the corners of her mouth lift up in a wide smile, and she looked up into her uncle’s eyes to find an answering expression.

This was going to be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a sequel to this coming soon!


End file.
